Today marks my fourteenth year in law enforcement so I thought I might share a few of the things I've learned.
People can be fucking stupid. That includes me.
The job will never love you, no matter how much you love it.
Addicts take no time off. You can encounter them at any time, under any conditions.
Gangsters do take time off. You'll rarely encounter them before 1000hrs.
Gangsters almost always start out mama's boys, crying for attention from mama.
Traffic stops are not routine.
If it looks to good to be true, it will definitely bite you.
Yes, you may have to touch that vermin-infested criminal, but you don't have to smell him.
If you are fighting with someone in the middle of the street and didn't call it in, you are on your own, no matter how many civilians are watching. They'll record your actions, but don't count on them helping you.
Shaking it off is for games, not work. You get hurt, you report that shit.
A full moon affects some people, sometimes. Be aware that you might be the person affected.
Domestic abusers do not generally change their stripes.
Pedophiles do not change.
You are going to see things that should not be seen. Hear things that cannot be unheard.
Write the best report you can, every time. You never know when someone is going to get arrested on that stolen property report and you'll be called to testify.
Accidents happen a lot less often than collisions.
Don't bring that shit home. Don't wear your boots home, and don't take your shit out on the kids, pets, or spouse. That said, figure out how to lance those wounds so they don't come out at night.
Drinking is not a solution, no matter how fun it can be.
Suicide is not an option. Everything ends, including pain.
If you see a fellow officer in pain, put it all on hold and help them, even if you have to overcome resistance to do so.
Cultivate courtesies even as you learn to talk shit. Know when to use one or the other.
Stay in policy. It might be stupid, but it might protect you from stupid, too.
Supervisors are not out to screw you, but they also may not be looking out for your best interests, either.
When in doubt it is better to be tried by twelve than carried by six.
It's also better to write the report, no matter how pointless or long, than expend even more effort trying to avoid taking that report.
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Showing posts with label Cop Stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Cop Stories. Show all posts
Friday, February 14, 2014
Tuesday, November 12, 2013
May Your Evening Be Asshole-Free
"May your evening be asshole-free!"is not just the name of my next Ska band, it's what I think I shall start to tell friends as I depart their company of an evening.
My day was most decidedly not asshole-free.
This morning, a young, heavily-muscled munchkin walked into court, and started asking questions while we were in session. The judge told him to leave. He did as ordered, but the man-child decided to loudly announce his discontent as he departed, using expletives.
I informed him in no uncertain terms that such behavior was unacceptable.
He puffed, pouted, and petulantly called me any number of (and because he lacked creativity, the same) expletives as he walked away. The hall was packed with people, making his childish act and his hateful speech very public.
"You just a bitch without that gun and badge," he called, over his shoulder.
I did not engage with his screeching attempts to poo-fling my direction. I had better things to do.
I returned to my other duties. I started to let it go.
Twenty minutes later, he has the temerity to ask for assistance.
It being my duty, I agreed to assist him.
As we stepped out into the hallway, now empty of persons, I said to him, "So, if, as you claim, I am a bitch, what does that make you?"
"Huh?" was the pithy wisdom he chose to answer my query with.
"Well, earlier, you were quite clear in claiming that you were absolutely certain that I am a bitch without my star and gun. So now, I was just wondering: if a person asks a bitch for assistance, would that not make you that bitch's bitch, however temporarily?"
"What?" the philosopher asked.
"Do I really need to make it more clear, sir?"
Clearly wishing he were elsewhere, the bumpy little twerp chose to attempt to misdirect me, "I don't know where I'm supposed to be."
"I see. And do you usually shout curses at someone and then seek their assistance?"
"Dude, I wasn't shouting."
I just looked at him.
"Alright, I wasn't that loud."
"Be a man: there's no one else here to hear you say it."
"I was shouting."
"And?"
Mumble...
"You were shouting aaaand?"
Mumble...
I cupped a hand behind my ear, "I can't hear you."
"I'm sorry."
"A sincere apology must be as public as the act that required it, but since everyone else knew where they had to be and have since cleared the hall, and it is my duty when wearing my uniform, star and gun, I will assist you."
"Uh..."
"No need to thank me, it's what I'm paid to do. Now, let's see where you're supposed to be..."
My day was most decidedly not asshole-free.
This morning, a young, heavily-muscled munchkin walked into court, and started asking questions while we were in session. The judge told him to leave. He did as ordered, but the man-child decided to loudly announce his discontent as he departed, using expletives.
I informed him in no uncertain terms that such behavior was unacceptable.
He puffed, pouted, and petulantly called me any number of (and because he lacked creativity, the same) expletives as he walked away. The hall was packed with people, making his childish act and his hateful speech very public.
"You just a bitch without that gun and badge," he called, over his shoulder.
I did not engage with his screeching attempts to poo-fling my direction. I had better things to do.
I returned to my other duties. I started to let it go.
Twenty minutes later, he has the temerity to ask for assistance.
It being my duty, I agreed to assist him.
As we stepped out into the hallway, now empty of persons, I said to him, "So, if, as you claim, I am a bitch, what does that make you?"
"Huh?" was the pithy wisdom he chose to answer my query with.
"Well, earlier, you were quite clear in claiming that you were absolutely certain that I am a bitch without my star and gun. So now, I was just wondering: if a person asks a bitch for assistance, would that not make you that bitch's bitch, however temporarily?"
"What?" the philosopher asked.
"Do I really need to make it more clear, sir?"
Clearly wishing he were elsewhere, the bumpy little twerp chose to attempt to misdirect me, "I don't know where I'm supposed to be."
"I see. And do you usually shout curses at someone and then seek their assistance?"
"Dude, I wasn't shouting."
I just looked at him.
"Alright, I wasn't that loud."
"Be a man: there's no one else here to hear you say it."
"I was shouting."
"And?"
Mumble...
"You were shouting aaaand?"
Mumble...
I cupped a hand behind my ear, "I can't hear you."
"I'm sorry."
"A sincere apology must be as public as the act that required it, but since everyone else knew where they had to be and have since cleared the hall, and it is my duty when wearing my uniform, star and gun, I will assist you."
"Uh..."
"No need to thank me, it's what I'm paid to do. Now, let's see where you're supposed to be..."
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
Professional Milestone
Six years ago I was minding my own business, straddling my department bicycle in the area of 24th Street and Folsom when the radio started blaring about a fight between a man with a cane and a woman happening in the area of 14th and Minna Alley.
Long story short: I stopped the man some distance from the scene of the crime at gunpoint and subsequently retrieved the garrote he had used, he believed, to kill the woman he was 'fighting' with. I know he thought he'd killed her because he said, "Bitch was dead when I found her." The garrote had long black hairs, some skin, and blood caught in the braided wire of it's construction.
He was wrong, thankfully. The woman survived her strangulation and subsequent stomping (There's some lengthy and quite horrific video of the entire event.). I learned that the reason why he committed this heinous crime is because he wanted either sexual favors or dope from the woman and offered her counterfeit money. She identified the counterfeits for what they were and told him to take a long walk on a short pier. He took exception and decked her, then wrapped the garrote around her neck and slowly strangled the life from her. She fought all the way, kicking and squirming.
A note about garrotes: this was the first one I had ever seen on the streets in my then 7 years of law enforcement, and it's still the only one I have ever seen taken from a street criminal. Everyone at the station, including officers of 30 and more years experience, were also surprised to see the weapon. They are rare, because they are, in my opinion, a murderer's weapon. Most criminals make excuses for themselves, saying they need a gun/knife/etc 'to protect themselves'. This is even a valid excuse, in some instances. A garrote, though, is generally used by someone sneaking up behind another, wrapping the wire around their neck, and then choking the life from them while sawing through the hard organs of the throat. In short: a murderer's weapon.
In most TV shows or novels, this would be the end of the story, bad guy caught, the victim survived. Law and Order does a better job, but even they have the cases solved and sentenced in an hour.
It never is. Last month that the suspect was sentenced. Six years.
I went to court at least five different times on the suspect's case over the course of the last six years.
During the long and drawn out process:
The defendant fired five attorneys appointed to be his counsel, he testified in a federal court as a witness against some federal prisoner from his earlier days as an inmate in federal prison.
The victim got clean, relapsed, and never did show up to court.
When I took the stand in front of two of the attorneys I was accused, variously: of racism, ignorance, stupidity, and simply making mistakes.
I ignored or slammed the first set of accusations, and owned the errors of memory I made in the long years between incident and trial testimony, even looking into the faces of the jurors and saying, "I am human, just like you. I can and do make mistakes, just like you. Any mistakes I have made in this case were those of memory caused in the six years since it happened, not of process."
The trial finally concluded in January of this year. The last attorney put up a valiant effort, but his client was not cooperative in the least, not very smart, and flat-out guilty.
Last month, at the end of this six year-long saga, the man was sentenced to 25 years to life with the possibility of parole with an additional 14 year enhancement to be served consecutive to the first sentence. Meaning, the defendant is about to do around 30 years, minimum. Already in his fifties, it's likely going to be a life sentence.
I feel good about the sentence, if not how long it took to get there. I certainly did my part to bring a bad man to justice, and hope that he will be kept from hurting anyone ever again.
Long story short: I stopped the man some distance from the scene of the crime at gunpoint and subsequently retrieved the garrote he had used, he believed, to kill the woman he was 'fighting' with. I know he thought he'd killed her because he said, "Bitch was dead when I found her." The garrote had long black hairs, some skin, and blood caught in the braided wire of it's construction.
He was wrong, thankfully. The woman survived her strangulation and subsequent stomping (There's some lengthy and quite horrific video of the entire event.). I learned that the reason why he committed this heinous crime is because he wanted either sexual favors or dope from the woman and offered her counterfeit money. She identified the counterfeits for what they were and told him to take a long walk on a short pier. He took exception and decked her, then wrapped the garrote around her neck and slowly strangled the life from her. She fought all the way, kicking and squirming.
A note about garrotes: this was the first one I had ever seen on the streets in my then 7 years of law enforcement, and it's still the only one I have ever seen taken from a street criminal. Everyone at the station, including officers of 30 and more years experience, were also surprised to see the weapon. They are rare, because they are, in my opinion, a murderer's weapon. Most criminals make excuses for themselves, saying they need a gun/knife/etc 'to protect themselves'. This is even a valid excuse, in some instances. A garrote, though, is generally used by someone sneaking up behind another, wrapping the wire around their neck, and then choking the life from them while sawing through the hard organs of the throat. In short: a murderer's weapon.
In most TV shows or novels, this would be the end of the story, bad guy caught, the victim survived. Law and Order does a better job, but even they have the cases solved and sentenced in an hour.
It never is. Last month that the suspect was sentenced. Six years.
I went to court at least five different times on the suspect's case over the course of the last six years.
During the long and drawn out process:
The defendant fired five attorneys appointed to be his counsel, he testified in a federal court as a witness against some federal prisoner from his earlier days as an inmate in federal prison.
The victim got clean, relapsed, and never did show up to court.
When I took the stand in front of two of the attorneys I was accused, variously: of racism, ignorance, stupidity, and simply making mistakes.
I ignored or slammed the first set of accusations, and owned the errors of memory I made in the long years between incident and trial testimony, even looking into the faces of the jurors and saying, "I am human, just like you. I can and do make mistakes, just like you. Any mistakes I have made in this case were those of memory caused in the six years since it happened, not of process."
The trial finally concluded in January of this year. The last attorney put up a valiant effort, but his client was not cooperative in the least, not very smart, and flat-out guilty.
Last month, at the end of this six year-long saga, the man was sentenced to 25 years to life with the possibility of parole with an additional 14 year enhancement to be served consecutive to the first sentence. Meaning, the defendant is about to do around 30 years, minimum. Already in his fifties, it's likely going to be a life sentence.
I feel good about the sentence, if not how long it took to get there. I certainly did my part to bring a bad man to justice, and hope that he will be kept from hurting anyone ever again.
Tuesday, June 5, 2012
Ha!
Talked with my friend and mentor in the PD today. Mark is retiring as of Friday. We shot the shit, laughed a lot, and generally had a great conversation. When the call ended I had a brief pang over how much I will miss him when he is no longer there to call for advice on how to deal with something stupid. Of course, he will be around, just not up to date on the latest BS...
But I digress; what the call really did was remind me of the many good times I've had in uniform.
Don't get me wrong, it ain't all shits and giggles. But sometimes the shit people do can give you a hard, gut-wrenching belly laugh. Sometimes the laughter is all you can do to keep from crying.
If you should see me sometime, ask me what story comes to my mind on seeing this picture:
It's gross, engrossing, and terribly funny, so if that's not your thing, don't fucking ask. I won't tell, otherwise.
But I digress; what the call really did was remind me of the many good times I've had in uniform.
Don't get me wrong, it ain't all shits and giggles. But sometimes the shit people do can give you a hard, gut-wrenching belly laugh. Sometimes the laughter is all you can do to keep from crying.
If you should see me sometime, ask me what story comes to my mind on seeing this picture:
It's gross, engrossing, and terribly funny, so if that's not your thing, don't fucking ask. I won't tell, otherwise.
Thursday, April 26, 2012
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Another False Quote From The Last Captain
Yes, another quote from my novel, The Last Captain. This time it is merely the attribution which is false. People who have been with me on the streets or in court might have heard something like this pass my lips:
“Just because the answer I gave is not the answer you want does not, in any way, render my response invalid.” –Matsuki Mikonos, Chair of the Council of Man
This statement is very infrequently followed by the necessary moment of silence required for full digestion of its meaning.
Today, the response was the far more common and immediate permutation of, "But I don't want it that way." This individual went beyond that simple verbal exhibition of hubris and went on the offensive: "They were rude to me there."
"And what did they say?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"That they couldn't help me."
"And that was the truth. May I ask how that is rude?"
"Well, they gave me some paperwork and told me to get out of line, that they couldn't help me until it was done."
"Again, they told you truth and supplied you with the paperwork. I fail to see how that makes them rude. Once you've filled out the paperwork, you'll have done what you can to straighten the situation out."
They left, without thanking me.
I am certain, in my very bones, that this person will tell the next person they talk to that I am rude, too.
To which I would respond, "Your perceptions of my job performance have no bearing on my actual job performance."
“Just because the answer I gave is not the answer you want does not, in any way, render my response invalid.” –Matsuki Mikonos, Chair of the Council of Man
This statement is very infrequently followed by the necessary moment of silence required for full digestion of its meaning.
Today, the response was the far more common and immediate permutation of, "But I don't want it that way." This individual went beyond that simple verbal exhibition of hubris and went on the offensive: "They were rude to me there."
"And what did they say?" I asked, knowing the answer.
"That they couldn't help me."
"And that was the truth. May I ask how that is rude?"
"Well, they gave me some paperwork and told me to get out of line, that they couldn't help me until it was done."
"Again, they told you truth and supplied you with the paperwork. I fail to see how that makes them rude. Once you've filled out the paperwork, you'll have done what you can to straighten the situation out."
They left, without thanking me.
I am certain, in my very bones, that this person will tell the next person they talk to that I am rude, too.
To which I would respond, "Your perceptions of my job performance have no bearing on my actual job performance."
Friday, March 11, 2011
Other Cop Writers
This guy gets it. Please read it through...
http://chattanoogapulse.com/columns/on-the-beat/on-the-beat-lives-hanging-in-the-balance/
http://chattanoogapulse.com/columns/on-the-beat/on-the-beat-lives-hanging-in-the-balance/
Monday, December 20, 2010
Ten Things I've Seen I Shall Never Be Rid Of
Yesterday's post, provoked by Scalzi, also sparked a quick correspondence between myself and a friend. This friend indicated they didn't think they could keep it positive enough to warrant doing it. I understood that, as several events I have witnessed sought to worm their way forward in yesterday's list. I didn't let them, not for that list, at any rate. It did get me thinking, though.
Some that have spoken with me in person might recall I a saying I have about Ocular Herpes. I don't mean, of course, to refer to a strain of real herpes that affects the eyes. No, what I refer to is the things one sees once and will never be rid of. Things that, when I close my eyes, return unbidden.
I am not trying to gross people out, or make them feel for me with this list. Indeed, most of what I have seen was much harder on the viewed than the viewer. All of them are a part of me now, and will remain so until memory fails. Most are not positive, or funny, but some sparked the gallows humor that is a survival mechanism for emergency workers, cops, and soldiers.
Baptiste, a character from my book, The Last Captain has a thought, 'Work Starfall, age in dog years.' That is a direct translation of my reality into my fiction; I have been heard to say, "Work the Mission, age in dog years."
Anyway, on with the list:
1) Responding to a call of an excessively loud party behind an apartment building. We are making our way through the top floor apartment when the officer in front of me walks through a beaded curtain and turns off his flashlight (the power was off in the apartment). He then starts to dance, chanting, "La cucaracha, la cucaracha," a pound and shuffle to his footwork like the best of a flamenco dancer. His partner clears the curtain, gasps, and laughs, shutting his light down as well. I entered, the carpet of the kitchen was alive. Cockroaches, millions of them, covered the floor, and hardly moved under the flashlight.
2) A pretty girl, breathing her last, the right half of her skull behind the forehead pressed upward from the bullet meant for her girlfriend's boyfriend, who had been flipping gang signs at the corner from the backseat of her car.
Blood has a distinct thickness, an aerated look when it passes through the skull and hair. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles didn't help.
3) The entire front bumper of a minivan, perfectly balanced in the middle, hanging from a low, impossibly thin branch of a tree. The block looked like a bomb had gone off when the suspect, trying to escape police, hit the minivan (containing a newborn and his parents). The family was alright. The suspect too.
4) Smoke dribbling from the mouth and opened skull of a young moron who had been playing Russian roulette a few minutes prior. His blood and pulped brains literally dripped from the vaulted ceiling of the room.
5) A man who looked like Ichabod Crane, all fleshless limbs, running from me. He catches his foot on the chain meant to stop cars from entering the parking lot and flies through the air, arms windmilling, appearing to fall in slow motion.
"Oh, Shhiiiiiiiiitt!" he groaned as he fell to land on his chest and belly, knocking the remaining wind from him. I laughed so hard I had a hard time cuffing him.
6) A fat man trying to get home after being shot, dying on his neighbor's front stoop, asking everyone piteously why his mother wouldn't open the door when he knocked. He expired before his mother could be summoned.
7) An attractive young woman who'd run off the bus into traffic to catch the next one, her leg bent in too many places so that her ankle was next to her head, asking me, "Why can't I get up, officer?"
8) The end of a plastic bindle of dope poking from the anus of a very large Samoan. Him, naked, daring me to come get it. That fight was less than epic.
9) A twelve year old prostitute running to her pimp to escape us. Him trying to get away. Later finding the methamphetamine he was using to enslave her.
10) An elder suffering from dementia, her hair and pillow filthy, her indoor toilet unemptied, asking what she was to do, now we had removed her friends from the apartment. Her 'friends' were SureƱos, part of MS13, and had been doing drugs, eating her food, and practicing her signature in order to steal her identity. She was so confused that she did not recall being shot by the same gang ten years prior for being a witness against the gang and its depredations.
Some that have spoken with me in person might recall I a saying I have about Ocular Herpes. I don't mean, of course, to refer to a strain of real herpes that affects the eyes. No, what I refer to is the things one sees once and will never be rid of. Things that, when I close my eyes, return unbidden.
I am not trying to gross people out, or make them feel for me with this list. Indeed, most of what I have seen was much harder on the viewed than the viewer. All of them are a part of me now, and will remain so until memory fails. Most are not positive, or funny, but some sparked the gallows humor that is a survival mechanism for emergency workers, cops, and soldiers.
Baptiste, a character from my book, The Last Captain has a thought, 'Work Starfall, age in dog years.' That is a direct translation of my reality into my fiction; I have been heard to say, "Work the Mission, age in dog years."
Anyway, on with the list:
1) Responding to a call of an excessively loud party behind an apartment building. We are making our way through the top floor apartment when the officer in front of me walks through a beaded curtain and turns off his flashlight (the power was off in the apartment). He then starts to dance, chanting, "La cucaracha, la cucaracha," a pound and shuffle to his footwork like the best of a flamenco dancer. His partner clears the curtain, gasps, and laughs, shutting his light down as well. I entered, the carpet of the kitchen was alive. Cockroaches, millions of them, covered the floor, and hardly moved under the flashlight.
2) A pretty girl, breathing her last, the right half of her skull behind the forehead pressed upward from the bullet meant for her girlfriend's boyfriend, who had been flipping gang signs at the corner from the backseat of her car.
Blood has a distinct thickness, an aerated look when it passes through the skull and hair. The flashing lights of the emergency vehicles didn't help.
3) The entire front bumper of a minivan, perfectly balanced in the middle, hanging from a low, impossibly thin branch of a tree. The block looked like a bomb had gone off when the suspect, trying to escape police, hit the minivan (containing a newborn and his parents). The family was alright. The suspect too.
4) Smoke dribbling from the mouth and opened skull of a young moron who had been playing Russian roulette a few minutes prior. His blood and pulped brains literally dripped from the vaulted ceiling of the room.
5) A man who looked like Ichabod Crane, all fleshless limbs, running from me. He catches his foot on the chain meant to stop cars from entering the parking lot and flies through the air, arms windmilling, appearing to fall in slow motion.
"Oh, Shhiiiiiiiiitt!" he groaned as he fell to land on his chest and belly, knocking the remaining wind from him. I laughed so hard I had a hard time cuffing him.
6) A fat man trying to get home after being shot, dying on his neighbor's front stoop, asking everyone piteously why his mother wouldn't open the door when he knocked. He expired before his mother could be summoned.
7) An attractive young woman who'd run off the bus into traffic to catch the next one, her leg bent in too many places so that her ankle was next to her head, asking me, "Why can't I get up, officer?"
8) The end of a plastic bindle of dope poking from the anus of a very large Samoan. Him, naked, daring me to come get it. That fight was less than epic.
9) A twelve year old prostitute running to her pimp to escape us. Him trying to get away. Later finding the methamphetamine he was using to enslave her.
10) An elder suffering from dementia, her hair and pillow filthy, her indoor toilet unemptied, asking what she was to do, now we had removed her friends from the apartment. Her 'friends' were SureƱos, part of MS13, and had been doing drugs, eating her food, and practicing her signature in order to steal her identity. She was so confused that she did not recall being shot by the same gang ten years prior for being a witness against the gang and its depredations.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Two Things You Must Watch
One of those blogs I have along the edge there is infrequently posted to by Shawn C. Baker, who put up this video of his band, the Forest Children. I not only love the song, I like the video a great deal as well! I can't wait to hear more, and am informed they will have an album available on iTunes soon:
On a not entirely different note, this morning I watched the video below. I couldn't help but think of all my writer friends (and specifically the UFGirlz), and wonder if they hadn't pulled similar stunts:
On a not entirely different note, this morning I watched the video below. I couldn't help but think of all my writer friends (and specifically the UFGirlz), and wonder if they hadn't pulled similar stunts:
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Careful What Data You Ask For, You Might Just Get It
A friend of mine, the same one who told me to blog a few of my cop stories, also informed me how to track the whos and whats of my blog visits, using Big Brother...
Big Brother, in this case, is Google Analytics, a terrifyingly efficient and brutal data aquisition module I added to my blog about three months ago. Yes, I've been tracking you, visitors to my little musty mind space. I know the cities whence you come, what browser you use, how many pages you peruse, and even how long you stay...
I can't claim to be anyone's Big Brother, I doubt I can even claim to be a big brother... Some stats to prove my decided lack o' impact upon the world through the dates of June 17 to Sept 2: 2010
1112 Visits to the site
Meaning times the blog was visited.
304 Unique Visitors
Meaning people who vistited the blog
27% return rate.
Meaning that most people return and read something I've posted about four times, which indicates that those that do stop in like what they read.
4 Minutes, 17 seconds is the average time that most remain on-site
A clear indication no one wants to listen to more than one song of the music I put up, if any.
The vast majority of visitors are from the US
Go figure. Most of the people I know are living here. It is an english language blog, too.
Followed (from a great distance) by the UK, Switzerland, and Canada.
Some strange, to me, locations pop up: Poland, Finland, Czech Republic... Most are short-timers I assume were led astray by their search engines, but Poland stands out as one nation where someone's really reading... or listening.
All in all, my friend was right!
Few want to hear about my writing, most want to hear cop stories. Ah well, hopefully my writing will one day convey some very beleivable yet fictional cop stories and those numbers will go up.
Big Brother, in this case, is Google Analytics, a terrifyingly efficient and brutal data aquisition module I added to my blog about three months ago. Yes, I've been tracking you, visitors to my little musty mind space. I know the cities whence you come, what browser you use, how many pages you peruse, and even how long you stay...
I can't claim to be anyone's Big Brother, I doubt I can even claim to be a big brother... Some stats to prove my decided lack o' impact upon the world through the dates of June 17 to Sept 2: 2010
1112 Visits to the site
Meaning times the blog was visited.
304 Unique Visitors
Meaning people who vistited the blog
27% return rate.
Meaning that most people return and read something I've posted about four times, which indicates that those that do stop in like what they read.
4 Minutes, 17 seconds is the average time that most remain on-site
A clear indication no one wants to listen to more than one song of the music I put up, if any.
The vast majority of visitors are from the US
Go figure. Most of the people I know are living here. It is an english language blog, too.
Followed (from a great distance) by the UK, Switzerland, and Canada.
Some strange, to me, locations pop up: Poland, Finland, Czech Republic... Most are short-timers I assume were led astray by their search engines, but Poland stands out as one nation where someone's really reading... or listening.
All in all, my friend was right!
Few want to hear about my writing, most want to hear cop stories. Ah well, hopefully my writing will one day convey some very beleivable yet fictional cop stories and those numbers will go up.
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